Stark naked in front of his bed, the single candle stitching wavelets of shadows
across your skin, when afterwards you are pliable, silky as an eel, your pupils
belladonnaed in the pocket-sized light, when you unearth the Grecian phosphorescence,
that spidery, shimmering fossil inside your underwear, when you bungle them back
on, noodling them up one thigh and then the other, when you sink into the corner
of the bed, his dog nestled next to you, its tail thwumping the mattress, when his
cigarette smoke flickers in from the kitchen, and the dark—pin-pricked, bookended,
wonky—plucks the enchanted rose petals of you, that’s when you ask your
body: was it worth it?
Bio:
Deanne Gertner
